The rest followed.  Izon reported to Joe, and Joe asked: 

“Do you think they’ll fight it out?”

“I don’t know!” Izon shrugged his shoulders.

This doubt was justifiable, for he soon found that he was leading a forlorn hope.  As morning after morning the men assembled in the dark meeting-room behind a saloon, and sat about in their overcoats complaining and whining, quoting their wives and relatives, more and more they grew disconsolate and discouraged.  There were murmurs of rebellion, words of antagonism.  Finally on the fifth morning a messenger arrived with a letter.  Izon took it.

“It’s from Marrin,” he murmured.

“Read it!  Read it out loud!”

He opened it and read: 

TO MY MEN,—­I have thought matters over.  I do not like to sever connections with men who have been so long in my employ.  If you return to work this morning, you may go on at the old salaries, and we will consider the matter closed.  If, however, you listen to advice calculated to ruin your future, and do not return, please remember that I will not be responsible.  I shall then secure new men, and your places will be occupied by others.

  Yours faithfully,

  THEODORE MARRIN.

  P.S.—­Naturally, it is understood that under no circumstance will your
  leader—­Jacob Izon—­the cause of this trouble between us—­be
  re-employed.  Such men are a disgrace to the world.

Izon’s cheeks flushed hot.  He looked up.

“Shall I write to him that we will not consider his offer, and tell him we refuse to compromise?”

There was a silence a little while, and then one of the older men shuffled to his feet.

“Tell you what we do—­we get up a collection for Izon.  Then everything will be all right!”

Izon’s eyes blazed.

“Charity?  Not for me!  I don’t want you to think of me!  I want you to think of what this strike means!”

Then some one muttered: 

“We’ve listened long enough to Izon.”

And another:  “I’m going to work!”

“So am I!  So am I!”

They began to rise, to shamefacedly shamble toward the door.  Izon rose to his feet, tried to intercept them, stretched out his arms to them.

“For God’s sake,” he cried, “leave me out, but get something.  Don’t go back like this!  Get something!  Don’t you see that Marrin is ready to give in?  Are you going back like weak slaves?”

They did not heed him; but one old man paused and put a hand on his shoulder.

“This will teach you not to be so rash next time.  You will learn yet.”

And they were gone.  Izon was dazed, heart-broken.  He hurried home to his wife and wept upon her shoulder.

Late that afternoon Joe and Sally were again alone in the office, their lights lit, their pens scratching, working in a sweet unspoken sympathy in the quiet, shadowy place.  There was a turning of the knob, and Izon came in.  Joe and Sally arose and faced him.  He came slowly, his face drawn and haggard.